The Accidental Tourist

It’s a new year, and for the first blog of 2023 I’ve chosen a book that insightfully portrays the sometimes unexpected process of recovery and hope: Anne Tyler’s 1985 classic The Accidental Tourist.

The central character, Macon Leary, is an early middle-aged man who could be described as sleep-walking through life. About a year earlier, his pre-teen son Ethan was shot dead as a bystander in a fast-food restaurant robbery. Grief has only exacerbated Macon and wife Sarah’s pre-existing marital issues, which becomes clear as she asks for a divorce early in the book.

Post-separation, he stays in their marital home, mired in low-level depression, and expending minimal effort to get through the day. Then he breaks his leg, and moves back into his old family home along with his late son’s marginally trained Welsh corgi Edward. There he is looked after by his younger sister Rose, a spinsterish, motherly woman whose self-appointed job is to keep house for her two older brothers who also live there, as well as to help various elderly neighbours. Macon writes guidebooks for reluctant business travellers, and continues to work from home while recovering. As the weeks slip by, he is slowly and willingly drawn (back) into the cautious, controlled home-life of his siblings.

But the outside world intrudes. Macon’s single, sporty editor tracks him down; Julian hadn’t known about his broken leg, separation, or eccentric, cloistered family, and is curious to learn more about this very private man. Muriel Pritchett: a dog trainer Macon employs when Edward’s misbehaving escalates, is also interested in learning more about him.

On the surface Muriel and Macon seem like a unlikely pair. She’s a much younger, financially insecure, often chaotic, and embarrassingly unrefined single parent, who regularly disrupts Macon’s orderly world and buttoned-down demeanour. Yet, as he spends time with her and her allergy-prone young son, he is unexpectedly nudged out of his emotional cocoon. When Sarah comes looking for another chance, and Macon’s family continues to disapprove of Muriel, Macon must choose between the safety and comfort of the known, or a more open, courageous life—and version of himself—he’s discovered through Muriel.

And, in a parallel story of opposites attracting, playboy-like Julian becomes besotted with prim, sheltered Rose. Despite resistance from her family, they marry, but Rose is soon pulled back into the familiar routine of her caregiver role and “the Leary groove.” To find out how it ends, you’ll have to read the book.

So, what is it about this novel that made an impression? As is often the case, it starts with the writing. Tyler’s descriptive language is highly effective in creating mood: the greyness and immobility of early grief, the constrained tone in the Leary home, the painful endings of a marriage. Many other details also made the story come alive. Just a few include: the moment-by-moment struggles of training a leashed dog on crutches, the smell of Macon’s estranged mother as she brushes past him at Rose’s wedding (“she smelled of bruised gardenias”), and the rain disappearing before it hits the ground on Macon’s work trip to Winnipeg.

That descriptive skill also helped me connect more deeply with the characters. This includes details of external attributes, like Muriel’s free-spirited, “vintage” wardrobe and Rose’s prim, old-before-her-time lifestyle. But Tyler also offers us glimpses into the characters’ inner worlds through her acute eye on (often subtle) behaviour. As well, characters are realistically well-rounded: not wholly good or bad. Macon Leary, for example, is a sympathetic character as he mourns the loss of his son, marriage, and usual mobility, yet the reader also learns of a man who can be frustratingly remote, selfish, ordered, and pedantic.

Several of these well-rounded characters are presented in the context of their past. The Leary brothers and sister were abandoned fairly early by their parents and raised by stern, conservative grandparents. Muriel’s relationship with her critical mother and her husband’s departure soon after her premature son was born, gives us insight into the underpinnings of her neediness, but also of her generosity and empathy.

This was also one of the first books I read that insightfully portrayed the complexities of parental grief: the guilt, the sometimes-illogical blame game, and the different ways individuals grieve, even whilst facing a common loss. Tyler also explores the psychology of taking life and relationship risks, sometimes pretty unexpected ones. Moving forward and embracing something new often means saying goodbye to a past that is also valued. This is not easy stuff, and the author handles such conflict with great truth and care.

And, while I rarely say this, I would highly recommend the movie version of this book as well. The novel's dialogue is well-reflected in the movie, and, dare I say, the excellent casting, acting, and cinematography even elevate the book in some respects. Whether via the book and or the movie, I encourage you to delve deep into this sometimes sombre but ultimately hopeful story. 

You're a Classic (and a Mean One), Mr. Grinch

On the face of it, How the Grinch Stole Christmas and its spiky protagonist, the Grinch, seem to lack the gentle, sweet-natured tone of many Christmas classics. Yet, this 1957 tale by Theodor “Dr. Suess” Geisel has unexpected charms of its own that have stood the test of time. It’s even inspired several movies that are also holiday staples. 

For the rare few who don’t know the tale, the Grinch is a cranky, odd-looking creature who hates Christmas for some unknown reason (several theories include his too-tight shoes or a too-small heart). He lives just north of a land called Who-ville, which is inhabited by Whos: happy, quirky-looking, Christmas-loving folk of all shapes and sizes.

After many years of suffering through the annual festivities, the Grinch is in no mood for the noise and merriment of Christmas again this year, so he comes up with “a wonderful awful idea” to stop Christmas from coming to Who-ville. He disguises himself as Santa Claus and deputizes his little dog Max as his reindeer. While the Whos sleep, the Grinch invades their homes and loads his sleigh with their stocking stuffers, toys, decorations, and festive food (everything from Who-hash to roast beast).

However, as he tries to stuff a Christmas tree up the chimney, he’s interrupted by a toddler named Cindy-Lou Who, who wants to know why “Santa” is taking their tree. The crafty Grinch tells a smooth story about taking the tree for repairs at his workshop. He then snatches the tree (and the log for their fire) and makes his escape. He repeats this thievery throughout Who-ville.

When finished, he escapes high atop Mt. Crumpet, where he plans to dump the contents of his sleigh. The Grinch waits expectantly to hear Who cries of dismay and sadness as they discover the loss of their Christmas finery. But instead, every Who down in Who-ville is singing. The Grinch hadn’t stopped Christmas from coming; it came just the same. After his initial confusion, he realizes that Christmas must be about much more than the material trappings. And “in Who-ville they say…the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.” Propelled by his renewed heart, the Grinch brings back the toys and food for the feast—he himself even carved the roast beast.

There are so many things I like about this Christmas classic. I am not always a huge fan of rhyming, but the author uses rhymed verse artfully to draw in and engage the reader, particularly young readers. He also captures the excitement and hope of the season, as the Whos get busy with all kinds of Christmas prep. It reminds me of the thrill and magic of the Christmas build-up when I was young, when the only thing I had to worry about was getting to sleep on Christmas Eve. Perhaps that's why Cindy Lou Who, with her wide-eyed innocence, remains such a beloved character.

The book’s drawings—done by the author—are spare and unique, as are its quirky characters. Although the book was first published in 1957, it never feels outdated, perhaps because we are perpetually able to imagine the Whos and Who-ville in an alternate sphere untouched by time and modern concerns. Sixty-five years ago, I doubt Dr. Suess could have envisioned the commercial madness of Black Fridays and Cyber Mondays, yet his story’s message is more relevant today than ever.

That said, this story is arguably a bit dated in that it focuses exclusively on Christmas. With the current emphasis on acknowledging and honouring a range of other traditions this time of year, who knows how Dr. Suess might have framed this tale if written today. Or, he may have unapologetically held tight to a Who-ville Christmas.

Now about that Grinch—I have a big soft spot for him. Granted, I am always a sucker for a bad boy who grows up a bit in the end, but it’s more than that. As an adult, life can get hard and it’s easy to don a cynical armour and lose the magic of the season amidst stressors, losses, and an out-of-control holiday "to do" list. And, like Charles Dicken’s Scrooge, the Grinch may have a backstory of loss that contributed his seemingly small heart and self-imposed isolation. Whatever the case, the good news is that all is not lost: the Grinch shows us that change is possible, and such change often happens through the inspiration of others.

As an endnote, I’ll add that I’m also a big fan of the 1966 animated version of this book. It did a wonderful job of bringing How the Grinch Stole Christmas to life, with the voice of Boris Karloff, complementary music, and animation that honoured the original illustrations but added a little something extra as well. 

Anne of Green Gables: Scope for the Imagination

This post choice feels a little predictable, but there’s no way around it. Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery, made a definite impression on me in my tween and teen years.

I can’t remember exactly how I first discovered this book. It might have been through my maternal grandmother, who also had other books in the “Anne” series. This grandmother was not as entertaining as our other grandmother, but she had lots of interesting books; a woods and wishing well as part of her property, and told us tales of woodland fairies and other creatures. It was all scope for the imagination.

For the uninitiated, Anne of Green Gables is about a skinny red-haired orphan named Anne Shirley who arrives at a modest farm (Green Gables) in rural Prince Edward Island in the 1870s/80s. That farm is home to an older woman (Marilla) and her brother (Matthew), neither of whom have married or have experience of children. They’d originally requested an orphan boy, in part to help on the farm, but Anne quickly captures the affections of the very shy Matthew. For this reason, as well as to save Anne from a subsequent placement with a large family needing a live-in babysitter, Marilla reluctantly agrees to take Anne on a trial.

The early part of the book is full of unfortunate scrapes Anne gets into, including an angry outburst with an outspoken pillar of the community and then a popular boy in school. She also accidently dyes her hair green in an attempt to transform the red; is on the cusp of serving a mouse-tainted dessert sauce; mistakenly gets her best friend drunk, and falls off a rooftop: the result of a dare. Amidst all this, Anne’s frequent flights of imagination, constant chatter, and focus on clothing and appearance are vexing yet gradually endearing. Despite the trouble she is often in, her intentions are most often good, and she ultimately finds a permanent adoptive home at Green Gables..

As relationships with the key people in her life: Marilla, Matthew, and best friend Diana grow more secure, Anne’s mishaps quiet down and she begins to blossom both academically and socially. As well, she eventually lets go of a long-standing grudge against that popular boy in school. There's even a hint of pending romance as the book ends.

The great thing about revisiting books that have meant a lot to me is I get to read them again and reflect on how a book impacted my younger self. I also have the opportunity to read the book with fresh eyes, enjoying it through a lens of intervening life experience and matured values.

Years ago, several aspects of Anne of Green Gables stood out for me. One was its highly descriptive language. As Anne travels for the first time to Green Gables, I felt right there with her, absorbing every aspect of the experience and eager to continue the journey. I was also a little in awe of her spunkiness. She wanted to be accepted, but also spoke out if threatened. As a young person still living in an era of "children are seen and not heard," I was in awe and delighted. Anne’s intense and enduring friendship with Diana was another draw, as was the fact that the story was set in Canada: a rarity in my junior book collection.

Reading this book again today, I appreciate some of the same things, including the highly descriptive prose, particularly as it applies to the beauty and natural world of rural PEI. In my present-day crankiness though, I was less enthralled with Anne’s incessant chatter, non-stop energy, and easy distraction. I couldn’t help thinking that in today’s world Marilla and Matthew might be urged to seek out an assessment. Yet, ultimately, her high energy and imaginative thinking didn’t seem to set her back, except for some scolding from Marilla.

As well, while I can understand the source of orphan Anne’s neediness and quest for reassurance, it sometimes felt like a lot, particularly in her initial meetings with Diana. Perhaps that’s a sign of changed times—today we may be less willing to be openly vulnerable—or perhaps I am just cranky. That said, I now appreciate, much more than before, the important role of a secure home and loving but firm guidance on the positive emotional growth of a child. Not every loving adoptive home ends up raising an academically excellent, responsible, socially poised Anne Shirley, but there’s a lot to be said for the power of love, acceptance, constancy, and few enforced house rules.

While the story is dated in many respects, the end of the book reflects an ageless dilemma: pursue ambition or put family first.  When Matthew dies and family finances are strained, Anne makes the difficult decision to decline a university degree scholarship and become a local teacher to support an aging Marilla at Green Gables. It's a test of character that remains instructive for readers of all ages. Anne’s path had narrowed but her generosity and optimism remained. “The joys of sincere work and worthy aspiration and congenial friendship were to be hers…and there was always the bend in the road.”

Bird by Bird: Anne Lamott Instructs on Writing and Life

I first came across Anne Lamott via a short video that popped up on how she got sober. Who was this quirky-looking woman with white-girl dreadlocks, who described her past self as a drunk bulimic Christian and talked about the value of doing things badly (versus not at all)? I was captivated.

Since then, I’ve read most of her non-fiction titles, which offer slices of life, and typically touch on themes like sobriety and recovery, parenting, mental health, love, loss, faith, friendship, and the various struggles and vulnerabilities that are part of being human. Even when the topics are tough, such as losing a best friend to cancer, her gentle insightful humour often softens the rawness, without minimizing the emotions at play.

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994) is her second non-fiction book of many. It’s been around long enough to have a 25^th anniversary edition. I thought I would feature this particular Anne Lamott book, as it's stood the test of time, and is an interesting mix of subject matter expertise and her signature story-telling.

The introduction is relatively long and one of the most interesting parts of the book in my opinion. Here she essentially shares how she became a writer. She describes her mother and father as reading every chance they got, taking her and her siblings to the library each week to load up on books. Her father was a writer and writers were revered in their family. 

This helped lay the foundation for her future career, as did her early encouraged talent (she won her first writing award in grade two), and her father’s mentoring. Sadly, her father died young. Lamott used writing as a way to help make sense of that dying process and as a collaborative vehicle for him express his experience when he no longer could.

As her career progressed, Lamott began to teach writing classes, and continues to this day. Content consists of “telling [my students] everything that has helped me along the way and what it is like for me on a daily basis. I can teach them the little things that may not be in any of the great books on writing.”

Bird by Bird brings together many of the tips shared with her students. It doesn’t get down to the nitty gritty of writing mechanics, such as The Elements of Style, but it does cover multiple aspects of the writing process at a slightly broader level.

I found her best advice in the first portion of Part One, as it potentially speaks to writers and non-writers alike. How do we start and move forward with a project that seems very daunting? She suggests starting with what you know, as well as breaking work into small assignments or chunks. In fact, the title of this book comes from advice Lamott’s father gave her brother, who had put off a large school project on birds until the last minute: “just take it bird by bird.” Lamott also advises allowing very imperfect first attempts (she calls them “shitty first drafts”), and avoiding the trap of perfectionism. While she’s talking about writing she could be talking about any challenging endeavour where we don’t know how to begin, or don’t feel up to the task.

The rest of Part One gets into more technical information: how to develop a character, plot, dialogue, setting, and knowing when you’re done. The focus seems to be more on writing fiction, which is not every writer’s preference, but it’s worth reading nevertheless. Throughout she offers gentle guidance, borne of her own experience, peppered with anecdotes on writing and life. Bird by Bird doesn’t skimp on the “how to” aspects of writing, but it takes you deeper, and with more heart, into the writing life—or at least into one woman’s writing life.

Part Two deals with the writing frame of mind; Part Three with the value of enlisting help in the writing process, such as: using index cards to organize work, tapping into subject matter experts for facts and story detail, joining a writing group(s), and finding a few trusted readers of your drafts.

Part Four explores the reasons to write, which include publication. This was also a favourite section of mine, as it doesn’t presuppose publication and getting known as a writer are the only worthy goals of writing. Lamott talks about several of her ultimately published works that were initially intended only as presents to a family member or friend. Writing can also help make sense of—or transform—something that feels too hard to fathom or even survive. Lamott’s first novel is based on her family’s experience caring for her terminally ill father. She wanted to create a story about end-stage cancer that illuminated the whole experience, including moments of humour, tenderness, and the survival of those left behind.

And while publication isn’t always the goal, Lamott doesn’t minimize its importance to those who identify as writers. She balances this with the less glamourous aspects of being published, including the inevitable pressures to do it again. She cautions her students that publication (should it even happen) will probably not transform their lives in the ways they imagine, yet encourages them to keep going because writing has the potential to make them “feel better and more alive than they do at any other time.” 

A Little Book About Waking Up

In 2013, I took a short course in mindfulness meditation at work; I then pursued a longer mindfulness-based course related to stress reduction. While both had a secular focus, Buddhist philosophy inevitably trickled in. That is when I first encountered the writings of Buddhist nun Pema Chodron.

From the outset, I found her writing straightforward and relatable, dealing with topics like coping with difficult times, our human pattern of seeking pleasure and avoiding pain, the struggle to be more compassionate with ourselves and others, accepting impermanence, and the list goes on. One reviewer noted that Chodron has a unique ability to express Buddhist teachings in terms that resonate with people’s lived experience.

This ability is no doubt due to her decades-long practice and study of Buddhism. But I’ve also wondered if her fairly conventional life before becoming a nun allows her to better apply her teachings to the everyday challenges of people who live life outside monasteries and abbeys. Pema Chodron was born Deirdre Blomfield-Brown in 1936 in New York City. She grew up Catholic, obtained a Master’s degree in elementary education, married twice, and had two children through her first marriage. After a heart-breaking end to her second marriage, she began studying Tibetan Buddhism, and became ordained two years later at the age of thirty-eight.

The Pocket Pema Chodron is a tiny (3” X 4.5”) treasury of 108 short selections from her best-selling books. These selections run from half a page to two tiny pages, and include titles/topics like: Why meditate? Difficulty is inevitable. Move toward difficulty. When you open up to life as it is. Rejoice in ordinary life. Difficult people help us to learn and grow. Moving beyond self-protection. When anger arises, remember to pause. I will stop here before I give up all the gold.

While I’m not a Buddhist, elements of Buddhist philosophy resonate strongly with me. Some of these include the idea that:

• Everything that happens in our life, including—or perhaps particularly—the obstacles and stuff/people we perceive as negative or difficult, can become our teachers and wake us up;
• Peace, emotional equilibrium, and insight are found in the present moment, not ruminating about the past or too much focus on the future (excessive planning/ worry);
• Being curious can open us up, keep us in the present, and lessen the human tendency to be fearful or judge;
• Seeking security or perfection limits our life experiences; it’s a kind of death. And, in doing so, we set ourselves up for failure because inevitably we meet something we can’t control, and,
• As previously noted, there is great power and healing in having compassion for ourselves and others.

That only scratches the surface of the wide range of Buddhists beliefs, traditions, and practices. I find even this tiny list of principles incredibly challenging, which I think is part of the appeal for me. And beyond this, my life experiences thus far has found them to be true, and worth continuing to reach for.

In Buddhist philosophy, as taught by Chodron, I also recognize some alignment with the field of psychology. For example, topics like self-compassion, the landscape of shame, resilience through adversity, and awareness of and non-attachment to our thoughts, are explored in both fields of study.

So, if you’re needing some bite-sized inspiration or guidance from time to time, I encourage you to check out The Pocket Pema Chodron, or any other book/materials by this author. It’s a very non-intimidating way to get curious about what Buddhism and Buddhist philosophy has to offer. I keep this pocket edition close at hand for those (fairly frequent) moments when I need a little Pema wisdom.

Note: I also recently revisited the website Tiny Buddha, which I find quite engaging. It's a fairly light presentation of Buddhist principles, often as they intersect with psychological guidance.

 

 

She's Come Undone

Wally Lamb Gives Voice to a Favourite Heroine

It's getting to the season where some folks are looking for a good beach read. She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb lacks the lightness of a summer read, but it’s still easy to get lost in the saga-like plot and colourful cast of characters.

Its jacket describes the book as a “coming-of-age odyssey,” and I’d say that’s pretty accurate. The story begins in 1956 as four-year-old Dolores Price and her mother await delivery of a new television set. The set is a gift from her father’s rich and overly-attentive female employer, and the reader quickly gets a sense that all is not well in Dolores’s world.

Her father’s multiple infidelities, together with the loss of a baby in childbirth, lead to divorce and her mother’s severe depression, for which she is institutionalized. Dolores goes to live with her grandmother: a woman she hates, where she encounters various school bullies and a strange collection of neighbours. At thirteen, with her mother now out of the hospital and living in the grandmother’s home, Dolores is raped by a charismatic married tenant. She slides into years of compulsive eating, TV-watching, and ongoing conflicts with her mother. Then, her mother is killed in a workplace accident and Dolores reluctantly decides to honour her mother’s wish that she go to college.

The college experience is unhappy (Dolores is bullied by many because of her weight and experiences unwelcome interest by a college staffer). Eventually she snaps, killing the staffer’s pet fish and escaping to Cape Cod to see a TV-featured dying whale before being institutionalized for seven years. With the help of a forward-thinking psychiatrist, Dolores gradually confronts her traumas, including her mother’s affair with the man who raped her. She moves to a half-way house, then productive employment, where she stumbles upon the location of her college roommate’s neglected boyfriend and decides to move to his community. A relationship ensues, and all seems initially rosy, but they disagree about having a child. Dolores reluctantly has an abortion and they marry, but after four years and an infidelity on his part the marriage ends.

About the same time, her grandmother dies, and Dolores ends up back in the house she’d longed to escape. She stays put, getting several jobs, but regresses in the midst of this stressful transition: belligerent behaviour at work, seclusion, and overeating. Her grandmother’s eccentric—now disabled—neighbour, Roberta, re-enters the picture and helps refocus Dolores, as does her former high school counsellor, Mr. Pucci: a gay man who has lost his long-time partner to AIDS and is infected as well. Dolores re-connects with an employer who sees her potential and offers to fund some college classes. There she meets and ultimately marries a fellow student and single father; they’d both like to have a child, but by the end of the book they’re still trying. As the story closes her husband takes her on another trip to Cape Cod. This time she is able to celebrate the sighting of a live whale breaking through the waves.

Apologies for the long synopsis, but it’s a meaty book. Reading it again, I felt like I’d been put through the emotional ringer; yet it was worth it, as always. Because amidst this odyssey of hurdles and heartbreak, there is also a strong sense of hope and the possibility of transformation. As well, along the way, Dolores finds multiple allies who soften life’s blows and expand her world.

Of the many books I’ve read, this stays on my bookshelf for several reasons. It's not another idealized depiction of life in the 1950s, with an intact flourishing nuclear family. That was new to me. In addition, when originally published, much was made about the author’s ability to write convincingly as a young female in the first person. While this is a lesser element in my overall assessment, it is still noteworthy.

The book also does a good job of illustrating how early trauma, particularly when not expressed or dealt with, can strongly influence the trajectory of our lives: our choices, what we feel we deserve, our triggers, and many other aspects. As research shows, the more trauma or adverse life events experienced when young, the more profound the negative impacts on physical, mental, and social health as life unfolds. Given Dolores’s early and multiple adversities, the reader has some context for understanding her subsequent behaviours. She is frustrating and unsympathetic at times—often her own worst enemy—yet I continued to root for Dolores Price throughout. And, she is just one of many multi-dimensional characters in the book: flawed yet endearing, and that rang very true to me.

I’ve always been drawn to stories of the underdog, and those who persevere through adversity to find their place and purpose in the world. Wally Lamb has created such a story, where life can be hard, people can be imperfect, and there can still be a way forward amidst that messiness.

A Love Story with a Twist

“We read to know we are not alone.” This powerful line from William Nicholson’s play (also a movie), Shadowlands, has stayed with me and is an integral aspect of why I value books and reading so much. Books can transport us to new lands and adventures, but they can also share emotional states, relationship struggles, and other experiences that are very much part of the human condition. It can be comforting and validating when an author's work and words reflect our own experience.

That's a long preamble to my latest blog post, but it speaks to the particular value of the book I introduce. The book is Drinking: A Love Story by the late Caroline Knapp. I can’t remember how I came upon this book: whether through a deliberate topic search or pure serendipity. I recall, however, that it was a book I sorely needed at the time.

This memoir tells the story of a successful writer/columnist who seemingly had it all. She also had a secret: an intense love affair with alcohol. Those who knew her best admittedly saw some red flags in her drinking but, for the most part, she presented a veneer of success in work and life. She came from a well-off, professional family; was a popular, high-functioning writer who put work first; had good friends and intimate relationships, and always looked fit and put-together.

But like many alcohol-infused biographies, there were transition points that took her drinking from social, to heavy and periodically problematic, to a realm where it took control of her life, priorities, and decision-making.

Knapp recounts how her drinking escalated when her father: a complex, renowned psychiatrist (with his own secrets, including alcoholism) was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour. At that point “all bets were off…his illness opened up a well of fear in my chest that felt bottomless, and I drank to fill it, to escape it, to numb it.”

And eventually there was hitting bottom, which looks different for everyone. It often involves a significant negative consequence to drinking that offers someone a moment of clarity regarding the destructive situation, and can spark a strong resolution to change. What had started as a relationship with alcohol full of passion, promise, and solutions, almost imperceptibly morphed into one of betrayal, heartbreak, and regret.

Ultimately, Knapp goes to rehab and gets sober: a happy ending but she doesn’t sugar-coat the particularly tough psychological process of doing this hard work. She is equally eloquent, though, about the rewards of sobriety, even as she describes walking through the experience of losing her mother to a recurrence of cancer without the protective layer of alcohol to numb and soothe.

My personal library is stocked with drug and alcohol recovery memoirs, but this one rises to the top. It was the first to tell a story I could relate to, in writing so beautiful I would re-read passages and savour her words and their ability to so accurately capture the imperfections and emotional vulnerability we try to hide in our attempt to appear together and OK. That may sound a little over-the-top, but I think it’s one of writing’s great superpowers: to unearth something in us that frees us, comforts us, emboldens us.

I post this on May 15^th, 2022 because it was on this date 15 years ago that I severed my relationship with alcohol. What had started as a way to cope with a parent’s unfathomable terminal illness, became a habitual way to take the edge off life’s inevitable stressors for many years to come. I never missed a day of work or paying a bill, and even graduated top of my graduate school class, which is why Knapp’s experience as a high-functioning alcohol misuser resonated so strongly with me. But “high-functioning” is essentially an illusion, because negative impacts to health, relationship quality, spirit, etc. still exist and accrue; it can also be a barrier to admitting there’s a problem. Because Knapp’s experience paralleled mine in some elemental ways, it had a significant influence and impact on one of my most important life decisions.

And so, I come back to my blog’s beginning, and the idea of books and reading offering us a sense that we are not alone in our challenges, aspirations, and perspectives. That sense of shared experience can be a powerful force in engendering self-acceptance and, in some cases, personal transformation.

NOTE: Six years after her 1996 memoir was published, Caroline Knapp died of lung cancer at the age of 42. As I read the obituary I felt she'd been cheated. Alcohol didn’t get her but cigarettes likely did.